Dear Serial Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad
by Anticipating Boxes
Summary: AU, Angelface universe. Claire Novak is determined not to wind up one of those kids in therapy, so as far as anyone can tell she pretends her 'serial-killing, possibly satanic' dad doesn't exist.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes**: Angelface Universe, set sometime after Jimmy Novak was revealed to be alive and living as (the human) Castiel and accomplice to the infamous Winchester brothers. A big thankyou to OneLastCigarette for giving me the idea, and to Aithilin for her usual patience.

_A note to any newcomers - it's highly suggested that you read **Angelface** first_, so you have a handle on the basic premise of the AU.

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Claire didn't talk about her father much. In fact, most of the time she went around pretending that he didn't exist. It was much easier than facing up to reality, the comments from her peers, her mother's quiet watchfulness, and the child psychiatrist she was determined never to go back to. She had only been twice. Once when her father disappeared, and again when he showed up on the news.

The first time she was ten years old and her father had just skipped out on them. The false brightness of the office still didn't detract from the judging stare of a woman forty years too old to relate to anything she might have wanted to say.

Claire remembered thinking that the psychiatrist was only using information about children that she'd read in a textbook, that there was no way this woman remembered what it was like to be ten years old. She remembered trips to the guidance office at school, where a nun with a degree in social and community service would show her the box of tissues on the desk and ask if there was anything the school could do to make it easier on her. While she sat there, stiff-backed in the overlarge chair (why did counsellors always have too-big chairs?), knowing full well that this was a secret assessment to make sure she wasn't going to act out.

Most of all, Claire remembered her mother watching her through eyes that were swollen and red from crying. She remembered the assumption that her father was dead, rather than just gone. She couldn't remember where she'd gotten that idea, but it seemed to fit with how her mother didn't want to tell her anything about it. All of their family pictures stayed on the wall and her mother never took off her wedding ring, so Claire had just assumed.

Two and a half years later when the man from the FBI showed up on their doorstep, just hours before the news story broke, Claire had been banished to her room while her mother and the man spoke. She had crept back downstairs to listen anyway, and remembered a feeling of numbness as she'd listened in. Her mother hadn't let her watch the news that night, but Claire had gone to the network's website and watched it online.

She was sent to see the psychiatrist for a second time after that, the office as uncomfortable and the woman as severe as she remembered. She'd decided then and there that she never, ever wanted to be back in that office, so she'd lied and pretended that she was fine. Doing the same at the guidance office at school was even easier.

The comments in class and at lunchtime were harder to ignore, but somehow Claire made herself act as if she didn't even hear them talking about her father. She ignored the sudden surge of interest in serial-killer culture at school, concentrated on her studies, and dropped several friends when they wouldn't shut up about Jimmy Novak and the Winchesters. (God, it was like they were pop stars. _'And now here's Jimmy Novak and the Winchesters, performing their number one hit, I Shot You In the Face With A 12-Gauge'_.)

A few months later the hysteria died down and Claire was left alone. She watched her teachers watch her, kept her grades at a steady A-, and went to the mall on weekends with her friends.

Outwardly she was everything a well-adjusted teenager should be. She was a good student, a good friend, a good daughter, and even a good Catholic. She went to church with her mother, got along well with her mother's new boyfriend.

Naturally, it was too good to be true.

On the inside Claire knew full well that she was a wreck. She'd read plenty about basic psychology on the web, read everything there was on dealing with grief and possible depression in young people. She knew all about denial, anger and acceptance – she could recite statistics about teen suicides without needing to reach for any books. None of it really helped. There was no self-help handbook titled 'Help, My Father is a Serial Killer'. She'd done enough searches. One day, if she actually managed to figure it all out, she might write one.

In the meantime she spent a great deal of time thinking. She composed letters to her father in her head, never daring to actually write them down in case her mother found them. (She wasn't going to buy that one-way ticket back to the psychiatrist. Thanks, but no thanks.) Most of them started with '_Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad_...' Which sounded sarcastic even in her head.

If it had been possible for her to send them she didn't know whether she would. After all, she didn't know the man. She hadn't known him for years, maybe hadn't known him her whole life. The man who's blank-faced picture stared at her from her computer screen wasn't the same smiling father she remembered.

Claire never mentioned her letters to anyone, always wiped her browser history clean before she got off the computer (just in case her mother went snooping). The links in her favourites were to reference sites for schoolwork and blogs full of cute fluffy animals, a couple of online stores she had bookmarked but never tried to spend her allowance on.

Outwardly, Claire didn't talk about her father much. In fact, outwardly, you would think he didn't even exist.


	2. Claire's Letters to Her Father

Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad... _May 2nd_

I think I might hate you.

Claire.

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Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad... _May 5th_

I guess you don't care, but it's my thirteenth birthday soon. Not that I expect anything after two years of nothing, it just would have been nice to know you actually still think about me.

Mom threw out all of the photos of just you. I still have one that I'm hiding under some books on my shelf. I don't know why, it's not as if you have any of me.

Claire.

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Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad... _May 11th_

Janice Taylor is no longer my best friend, and that's your fault. She started talking about you at school behind my back, calling you a whackjob (which you are) and saying how she always knew you were a creep. She wasn't saying it to me, but I heard her anyway. She told Matt Spencer that I was crying about you in the girl's room before school. I called her a bitch and accidentally spilled paint all over her work in art.

... Maybe it's not just your fault that we're not friends anymore.

Claire.

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Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad... _May 12th_

I read in a book in the library today about famous modern serial killers. I sat on the floor and read the whole thing in an hour. I didn't want to freak mom out by taking home a book about how and why people kill, so I didn't even bring my library card. She wants me to go back to the psychiatrist to see how I'm coping.

How do you 'cope' when your dad kills people?

You turned out to be a murderer, just... ran out on us and joined up with two of the creepiest men of the modern age! How did you do that? Did you meet in a bar or something? Did you meet them first and then leave, or did you decide you didn't want to be a dad anymore first?

According to that book I read the only living serial killer still at large who has a higher kill count than the Winchesters is a man in Russia.

Claire.

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Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad... _June 8th_

A documentary about you and the Winchesters aired tonight. That was quick. I remember mom chasing off a guy with a camera only a week ago. She wouldn't let me watch it when it aired, but I've had a computer in my room since my birthday last year so I searched youtube until I found some clips.

I saw the parts where they theorise that you were actually kidnapped and brainwashed. I like that better than the idea that you just ran out on us. Should I feel guilty about that?

I'm thirteen now.

Claire.

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Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad... _June 15th_

I've doing a lot of research online and in the library and I think I might have anger issues. I don't show it but I'm angry a lot of the time these days. I don't want mom to worry and I really don't want to spend time at the guidance office at school so I don't say a word to anyone. It's easy to fool people.

I wonder if that's how you feel sometimes. I wonder if you were only pretending to be normal, or if you just do it now so people on the street don't know who you are.

Claire.

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Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad... _June 23rd_

I know a lot about you, thanks to the internet. I keep having to delete my browser history in case mom ever checks up on what I've been reading. She doesn't want me to talk about you, except when she tells me it's ok to be upset and if I ever want to talk then she's there. I'm pretty sure she's lying, because I tried talking about the Winchesters after dinner tonight and she started crying. I caught her looking at the yellow card on the cork board. 'Julie-Anne Weathers, Child Psychiatrist'. I think I'll stick to talking to you.

Anyway, I know some things about you. I know you call yourself 'Castiel' now and don't answer to your real name. I know that your preferred method of killing is with a knife, there was security footage up on youtube for a few hours that showed you killing a man at a service station. I didn't get to see it before it was removed.

I also know that they say you're in a relationship with Dean Winchester. I didn't expect that. But then it's not like I expected you to ever kill people either.

I got a D on my last math test. Mom says I might need a tutor. I'm doing really well in English and Art though.

I don't know if you'd care about that.

Claire.

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Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad... _June 26th_

I don't think I hate you anymore. Is that bad?

I don't know why.

Claire.

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Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad... _June 27th_

I'm not sure I want to go to church anymore. I mean, I like the services and hearing the sermons. I love the stained glass windows and the paintings of the saints. I just don't know if I believe in God anymore.

A God like He is in the Bible wouldn't let you live and still gt away with the things that you do. Your name is a kind of sacrilege. You're a murderer, possibly a satanist or at least a participant in pagan rituals. (You're gay too, but even in the bible God never killed anyone for being gay.) If God is anything like what we're told in church, why would He let you and the Winchesters get away with murder? Literally!

I think I'll keep going to church for now, even if I don't believe in God. The Petersons always sit near us and their youngest son is my age. At least I'm not the only teenage Catholic who still attends Sunday services, even if we're forced to for love of our parents (parent?) and not religion.

Claire.

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Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad... _July 20th_

A girl at school used you to try and make fun of me. I wanted to hit her with my book, but George Orwell deserves better treatment than that. I kicked her instead.

Claire.

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Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad... _August 1st_

I read about Ruby Fields in the paper. She became national news after she managed to call home and told her parents she was with the Winchesters. I'm now 98% sure that the Winchesters really did kidnap and brainwash you.

Can't they get boyfriends or girlfriends the normal way? It can't be that hard. I've seen pictures of them. I've even seen creepy fansites online where people post about how they'd marry one of them if they could. I felt like replying and telling them to grow up.

Mom bought a bread maker and introduced me to a man she met at the supermarket. I think he's her new boyfriend and she's scared of upsetting me. I don't know why, it's not like you've only just gone and I keep thinking you'll come back. I haven't thought you were coming back in a long time.

Claire.

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Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad... _August 16th_

I got a B+ on my social studies assignment, and John Peterson may be going to ask me out next weekend.

I heard on the news that you participated in a small massacre at a diner in Wyoming, specifically in the parking lot. The news feed says that satanic symbols were spray painted on the asphalt and that there was blood everywhere. I keep imagining that your clothes would get very messy during these massacres. Is it hard to get the blood out of your clothing?

Mom says that grass stains are the hardest to get out, but I think that blood would be harder. She would also worry about my asking, so I guess I'll have to keep such morbid curiosity to myself or risk giving her the wrong idea. Knowing her she would take it as a sign that I am emotionally disturbed and I don't want to give her the idea that I have a genetic predisposition to violent crime.

Do you think there is such a thing as a genetic predisposition to violent and criminal behaviours?

I'm dreading my next science exam and hate chemistry with a passion.

Claire.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes**: I'm kind of shocked at how fast this chapter happened. Just, uh, don't get comfortable. Regular, slow updates will likely commence soon enough.

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"Claire! Hurry up or you'll be late for school!"

The call from downstairs rudely interrupted her train of thought. Totally derailed, Claire blinked at her reflection in the mirror. Her blonde hair was pulled back from her face by a set of baby blue clips that complimented her eyes. She was still holding a tube of lip gloss in her hand, though none of it had made it onto her lips just yet. Sometimes she debated the wisdom of even daring to put on that little bit of makeup when she was enrolled in a school with a strict uniform code.

Claire capped the lip gloss and stuffed the tube into the pocket of her blazer. "Coming!" She yelled back, grabbing her backpack from the floor beside her. Her cheeks would be red from the run to the bus stop anyway – her mother had only just started letting her take the bus again and Claire would rather risk another near-miss than get back into the routine of being driven to school.

The second she expressed any desire to catch a ride to school with her mother, Amelia Novak would take it as a sign that her daughter didn't feel safe on the bus. Her mother was like that a lot these days, Claire mused, back to the days of stranger-danger and bars on the windows ever since the news broke about her ex-husband.

Claire raced down the stairs, taking them two at a time. She detoured through the kitchen to kiss her mother on the cheek and snatch an apple from the fruit bowl for breakfast. "Bye, mom," she chirped, glad to see her mother in the green shirt that meant she was back to work.

"Have a good day at school, honey," Amelia replied, smiling at her daughter. She managed to get in a "stay safe" before Claire was out the front door and running to the bus stop.

Claire relished the idea of a day when her mother would stop treating her like a fragile thing that required constant monitoring. In that sense she sometimes wished her father was dead, and not just on the run and off the radar. She suspected that Amelia thought that her ex-husband might one day come back and try to take Claire from her. Claire knew better. Castiel had no interest in her or anyone else in this town, he didn't have any family there.

As she ran the three blocks to the bus stop, Claire composed a brief letter to him in her head. It was becoming an increasingly frequent habit, to the point where she wondered if it was healthy.

_Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad...  
I'm running late again. This can't be a family trait. Mom is never late, you were never late, but here I am running like I just heard the starter gun.  
Timing is probably a big thing for you, given your current occupation. Do you have any tips you can give me on time management...?_

Claire got to the bus just in time, shoving her bag into the door as it closed, forcing the driver to open it again. She smiled at him and walked into the rows of uniformed students already occupying the seats.

The school uniform suited Claire. White shirt, navy blue skirt matched with the same colour blazer and tie. The dress code required long white socks for the girls alongside flat back shoes, which let her wear ballet flats or mary-janes depending on her mood. Some days she wished she was bold enough to ask for a pair of docs, like some of the other girls.

She found a seat at the back next to the girl that was now Janice's closest friend. Claire did a very good job of pretending that the girl was invisible and stared out the window until the bus pulled to a stop outside the school.

The day mostly passed in a blur. She did the work, paid the minimum amount of attention required to get by and wrote her homework down on the first blank page in her ring binder. She spent lunch in the library where she enjoyed the quiet, and suffered through math afterwards. At the end of the period she had practically no work done and a bunch of drawings in the margins of her notebook. Before she knew it the bell was ringing, signalling the end of the day. Claire gathered her things and made her way to the bus stop, only to be waylaid by a familiar face.

"Hey, Claire."

"Hi," Claire replied, turning a little to look at John as he finished his approach. John Peterson wasn't the coolest or hottest guy around, but he was kind of cute and more than a little intellectual. Her kind of guy, Claire thought. It was a pity that they had absolutely no classes together.

"Hi," John said again, and smiled at her. "You take the four-oh-three bus, right?"

Claire nodded, holding her backpack a little tighter. "Yes."

"I take the four-oh-two. It goes from the stop next to yours."

"I know." Claire wanted to look down at her shoes, but she didn't. Confidence was also pretty easy to fake. "Want to wait together?"

They stood together between their respective bus stops in silence for a minute or two. Eventually John cleared his throat. "So... I've been meaning to talk to you for a while."

"We're talking now," Claire pointed out.

"Yeah, but I mean to tell you that I like you."

"My mom is working on Saturday," Claire offered, hoping that she wasn't blushing. "You could come over in the afternoon and watch a movie."

"Cool." John smiled. He was about to say something else but his bus arrived. "I'll talk to you about it tomorrow at lunch. You'll be at the library, right?"

Claire nodded. She waved goodbye to him as he got on the bus and waited until she couldn't see it before she let herself look as giddy as she felt.

_Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad...  
I think I have a date. If for some reason you come back to Pontiac in the next few days, please don't kill him or his family. That would be mean and very inconvenient for my potential love-life.  
(Not that I plan on kissing him or anything. Not yet.)_

Claire had the house to herself for a solid half hour every day after she got home from school. She used it in the same way she always did, online and looking at sites that would probably scare her mother into thinking there was something terribly wrong with her. Claire was secretly signed up for several newsletters online and even the Winchester fan club – a creepy organisation that scoured newspapers nationwide for potential Winchester hit-sites and sent weekly updates to subscribers – with an email address that her mother didn't know about.

It made her feel obsessive, but she figured she had a right to be. A good deal of the articles forwarded to her involved the man that had once been her father. Somehow reading about his less than pleasant exploits made her feel like he was still a part of her life; A secret and moderately disturbing part.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes**: What is wrong with me? This is unheard of. Daily updates. Oh my God.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially Designation (you made my day).

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Out of some instinct, or maybe just out of habit, Claire didn't tell her mother about John Peterson or how after two Saturday afternoons at their house he'd invited her to come sit with his group of friends at lunch. The group was small, three boys and two girls, with the addition of Claire bringing them up to six even. Like John, his friends were easy going and talked more about school work or current events than gossip. She hit it off with the two girls, Marsha and Lauren, right away – she liked that they didn't spend all of their time fussing over hair and clothes and boys. (They were disillusioned, Marsha told her on the very first day, they sat with boys so they already knew there was nothing worth talking about.)

After a month of hanging out with his friends and seeing him after school, John officially asked her if she wanted to be his girlfriend. Claire hesitated before she answered. "Ok," she said finally, "but I'm pretty weird."

John smiled at her and held her hand. "Yeah," he agreed, "I know. I like that about you."

That weekend, sitting on the floor in her room with half-finished homework pushed aside in favour of a plate of cookies, Claire looked at John and asked; "You're not afraid of my dad? I know a lot of other kids are afraid of him. Like they think he'd come back."

John shrugged. "Statistically speaking I'm more likely to get hit by a car, but I'm not going to start being scared of cars."

"So it doesn't bother you."

"No. I mean, I don't think it's dangerous to hang out with you." John looked at her. "Do you think he'd come back?"

"No," Claire answered immediately, a little surprised by the question. She sat up properly, brushing crumbs from her jeans as she thought about it. "I don't think he would," she said, looking at her knees. "I'm not scared of him ever coming back. If he did then there's nothing I could do about it anyway... I write letters to him sometimes," she blurted, feeling herself blush afterwards. "In my head. I don't write them down."

"Why not?" John asked. He didn't sound like he thought she was weird (or weirder than usual in any case).

"I'm afraid my mom would find them. I don't want to know what she'd think about it."

"Are they hate letters? Like, do you tell him how much you hate him and messed up things like that?"

Claire shook her head. "They're just... letters. Like you'd send someone if they lived somewhere far away, or if you were on vacation."

"'Dear dad, we're having great weather, wish you were here'?" John grinned at her.

Claire grinned back despite herself. She rearranged herself again so that she was leaning against a leg of her bed. "Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad..." she started, aloud for the first time, "According to the Winchester Watch newsletter you were spotted last Tuesday in California. Last Tuesday, while you were probably relaxing in the sun, I was in the middle of a chemistry test. All I can think is that I hope you got sunburned, because nobody should be having fun at the beach while I'm stuck in chemistry..."

John chuckled. "That's actually pretty funny," he told her, arms wrapped around his knees. "Do you always start it like that? 'Serial killing, possibly satanic dad'?"

Claire nodded. "It was meant to be sarcastic and mean when I first started. Now I just do it because it sounds right."

"Right." John didn't sound like he was making fun of her. "Because he is a serial killer and they do sometimes find satanic symbols around where the Winchesters have been."

"It would also be weird to change it now, when I'm already used to saying it."

John looked like he was about to say something else but the alarm on Claire's computer went off. She set it every Saturday to tell her a half hour before her mother would be getting home. John looked at the computer, then back at her. "Well," he stood up, "looks like I should get going."

Claire stood up as well and walked him to the front door. If she'd been afraid that he'd think bad of her now her fears were proved wrong when he kissed her. Just a peck, but still a proper kiss.

"I'll see you on Monday, right?" he asked, as if she were the one who might reject him.

Claire smiled at him. "Same time, same place."

She felt very much like a normal teenage girl. The feeling lasted right through Sunday, through church in the morning and dinner with her mother and Robert, her mother's boyfriend. She thought she might have composed another letter to her father before falling asleep, but she couldn't remember what it had been.

Monday morning John met her before school. He was grinning, and holding a few pages torn from a lined notebook in one hand. "I had a great idea the other night," he told her, showing her the hastily scribbled-on papers. "About those letters you write."

Claire looked through the small stack of paper, needing a few moments to decipher John's messy handwriting. When she looked back up at him again he was still grinning, and she was a little confused. "Um... this looks like a blog."

Sort of. It was a hand-written sketch of the potential layout, a few notes on a possible name, possible hosts, and a disclaimer that covered everything from 'what if mom found out' to 'this isn't crazy, really' and a list of websites that claimed that writing letters was a common means of therapy. Claire recognised a few of them, had read them herself. She was just a little surprised that John would have gone to so much effort.

"I thought it would be cool," he explained. "You don't have to say who you are, or any details about where you live. Anyone with some decent research skills would be able to figure out that you're a Novak, but I checked it out and the only information they ever gave about your dad's family was your mom's name and the town."

"And if they do find out then I could get a book deal." Claire didn't sound convinced. If anything she sounded like she thought it was a bad idea. Only she didn't, not exactly. Her main concern was her mother finding out... and as long as Amelia Novak didn't do any interesting searches Claire could keep it under wraps by deleting her browser history and making sure she never saved any of the letter drafts.

"It was just an idea," John started, making as if to take the paper back.

"No, I like it." Claire hesitated, then folded the papers and handed them back. "I just can't keep any evidence of it."

John frowned, then his face lit up in understanding. "Because of your mom."

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Claire's room smelled like earl gray. She sat in front of her computer, staring at the screen and listening with one ear to make sure her mother was still downstairs in the kitchen.

The colours on the screen were in varying shades of blue, none of them bright. Muted colours felt like they suited the content better. At the top of the page was the header, bold, unmissable, and with a smaller tagline just underneath.

'_**Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad**..._  
_A series of letters to Jimmy Novak (aka Castiel) written by his daughter_.'

Claire had just posted her very first public letter.

She closed the site, already having memorised the url and her login code. She wiped her history and deleted the word document that she'd used to draft the letter. She was using the same email that she had her newsletters sent to, so she hadn't needed to create a new one. With a sigh, Claire shut down the computer. She felt better than she had in a long time.

It was possible that there was something to this letters-are-therapy theory.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes**: I blame this sudden turn almost entirely on Aithilin. She put the idea in my head.

Those of you who still haven't, you might want to read at least _Angelface_ first. Otherwise some things about this chapter might not make much sense.

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[Claire's very first post on her new blog.]

**Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad...****  
A series of letters to Jimmy Novak (aka Castiel) written by his daughter.**

Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad... _23/09_

I've never done this before. I've written plenty of letters to you before, but none of them have ever been put down on paper or posted where anyone could see them. To tell you the truth I'm kind of nervous, afraid that somehow you'll read this and thinks it's as stupid as I do... But I have an obsession with knowing what you're up to now. Being signed up to so many newsletters and checking the national news reports like I do I guess it's just natural that I'd write my own.

As far as you know this is my first letter to you and you'll never see it unless you google your own name and search through hundreds of pages to find this site.

I thought for my first letter I'd start off with a few things about me, so we can be on even footing. I only know what I could find out online, so I might as well give you the same.

I'm thirteen now, and I have been for a couple of months. I'm really good at English and Art, but I suck at Math and Chemistry. My mother (your ex wife) is over protective, she thinks that you'll come back and kidnap me or that I'll turn out to be emotionally unstable. I guess I'm still a Catholic, but even though I still go to church I'm not sure I believe in God anymore. I subscribe to the Winchester Watch newsletter and check for new information about you online every week.

A lot of what I read about you sounds like complete crap.

Is it weird that I'm Ok believing that you're Dean Winchester's boyfriend and not Ok believing that you were seen ordering a soy latte from Starbucks? You used to hate soy milk and I just can't imagine the Winchesters drinking it either.

I will try to update twice a week.

Claire.

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_Dear Serial-Killing, Possibly Satanic Dad..._

_Wow. Six weeks, eighteen letters, and I've got a facebook fan page. Maybe I'll get that book deal after all. _

_I realised the other day that I've actually become one of those people that fans of the Winchesters put in their bookmarks. I'm a train-wreck you can't look away from. My morbid questions about decapitation and coin laundry actually interest people. (Everyone who isn't my dad - Come on, you know you're not reading for my math scores.) It's sort of comforting to know that I'm not the only person who reads an article about a bunch of bikers being decapitated and starts wondering whether you wore raincoats or if you keep a change of clothes on you just in case of blood splatter. I always thought raincoats would be kind of cool, but wouldn't they get in the way? They'd be kind of suspicious too, I guess._

_I'd congratulate you on the clean getaway, but it would either be sarcastic or more cause to worry about the state of my psyche._

_Claire._

_P.S. You have no idea how glad I am that my mom doesn't believe in signing up for facebook._

_._

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The cottage was just another in a long line of the same. Two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, a basement with a dirt floor, and a carport covered in creeping vines. The small square of greenery that passes as a back yard was fenced in chicken wire and half-rotted slabs of plywood. The back of the property bordered a train line, the front faced towards a suburb filled with white trash and drug dealers. In a place like this the neighbours just assumed that if you owned a sports car you also owned the firearms to gun down anyone who tried to steal it.

Lucky, because there were currently two that alternately vied for space in the car port. One, a huge black classic with a sleek body and a trunk big enough to hide a crate of guns; The other a small modern coupe in a fire-engine red. They were the kinds of cars you remembered. The kinds of cars where you forgot the driver because you were too busy staring at the body work. At present only one car was parked in the driveway, which meant that only two occupants of the cottage were home.

If you peered through the windows to look at the innocent domesticity inside you'd never guess that this small cottage housed the nation's most notorious killers.

One man, attractive but unassuming, stood in front of the kitchen sink with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and soap-suds clinging to his skin. The other man, classically handsome, sat at the nearby table, engrossed in something hidden from view by his shoulders.

The gleeful sound of Dean's laughter made Castiel turn from the sink full of dishes to look at his lover. The green-eyed murderer sat at the battered kitchen table, equally battered laptop open in front of him. Cas couldn't see the page that was open, but Dean looked as if he'd just stumbled across a pot of gold.

"Cas, you totally have to look at this."

Castiel gave his partner a look as he pointedly dried his hands on a dishtowel. "I am not interested in your pornography."

"Such a low opinion of me, angelface."

Dean turned the laptop so that Castiel got a good look at the screen and the relatively plain-looking blog open on the screen. Shades of bluish-gray made it look dull and uninteresting, then he read the title and completely froze. "I don't wish to read that, Dean."

"It's your kid," Dean replied with a sly little smirk. "Claire fucking Novak has a blog dedicated to her dear old dad where she talks about how much chemistry homework sucks right alongside theories about the serial killer psyche."

"I don't want to read it."

"Jesus, babe. She asks you questions about time management and how long it takes to scrub bloodstains from denim." Dean grinned. He looked impressed, as if he hadn't realised before that teenage girls had the capacity to be morbid. "That's one fucking creepy chick. It's great."

"Dean..."

Despite the warning tone in Castiel's voice Dean continued; "She says her boyfriend suggested turning the letters into a blog. Hear that, Cas? Your girl has a boyfriend."

He had barely gotten the last syllable out before Castiel had reached out and slammed the laptop shut. His eyes blazed a cold and furious blue in his otherwise impassive face. "I don't want to hear it Dean," Castiel ground out, his voice a growl that the Winchester had never heard before. Castiel shoved the laptop away and placed both hands on the back of Dean's chair. He forcefully yanked the chair away from the table, moved until they were facing each other properly. "I am Castiel," he said, holding Dean pinned to the chair with nothing more than the intensity of his stare. "I am not Jimmy Novak and I don't have a daughter."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Cas!" Dean blurted, unable to contain it.

Castiel's eyes flashed. Without further warning he punched Dean square in the mouth, then swooped down to kiss him as fierce and fast as the fist; Castiel kissed like it was a battle, like he wanted to show Dean his place. He left the younger man's lips bruised and his mouth tasting like blood.

"Don't google my old name," Castiel added coolly.

Dean stared at his lover. He watched as Cas turned back to the unfinished stack of dishes in the sink, hardly able to move. Finally Dean slid a hand down to cup his own crotch, not at all shocked to find himself hard. Castiel had a beautiful temper, and that was the first time Dean had ever seen it directed at him.

The Winchester stood. He sauntered up behind Cas and placed his hands on the older man's hips, pressed up against his ass and ground into him. "You make me so hot," he murmured into Castiel's ear, licking his own lips. "You're like a goddamn avenging angel. My beautiful angel. I know you're not Novak anymore, baby."

Dean pulled the other man tighter against him. He slowly wrapped an arm around Castiel's waist. "Dean," Cas breathed with a sigh. "Don't hurt my daughter."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Dean replied, and pressed bloody lips to the spot behind Castiel's ear. "Wouldn't ever dream of it."

"I'm a bad father."

"You're a bad man, Cas. There's a difference, you're not around to be a bad father."

Castiel leaned back against Dean, letting his eyes fall closed. He let his lover steer him away from the unfinished dishes, followed him to the threadbare couch in the cottage's tiny living room. "She's a good kid," Dean told him; "She sounds like a good kid, and coping just fine."

.

.

[Found in the inbox of Claire's secret blog-related email, buried in a mess of newsletters and other feedback.]

_Subject: To Cas's Kid_

_Claire. Your dad isn't a Satanist. He rocks fuckin hardcore at flipping pancakes and gets pissy if we don't eat something green and crunchy at least once a day. I think he hates himself some for not running back to Pontiac when he had the change and choosing me instead. I care about him a lot if that helps._

_Dean._


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes**: I have never wished to be able to write in multimedia more than in this chapter. If I had my way (and the guts, or the coding ability) the emails, blog entries and 'photos' in this story would be in picture format.

Sadly, my ability to art doesn't extend to making people look like who they're supposed to, and I don't exist except on this site. Anyone who can help me remedy this is welcome to PM me.

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* * *

The email was buried so thickly in the piles of other site-specific feedback that at first Claire didn't see it. She received weekly emails from the server that listed each piece of feedback that was sent through the site. Normally she ignored the comments left on the entries themselves, feeling that it would compromise her ability to write just what she was feeling if she felt she needed to reply to things people had said. It was easier to just skim the comments, most of which were pretty meaningless to begin with, and ignore them from then on.

The first time she started reading this week's summary she had to quickly close the window when her mother popped her head in through the door, and it was only thanks to that piece of happenstance that she even noticed the email in the first place. Somehow closing the window so suddenly had unmarked it as 'read', so the next time she opened up her email account the first unread email happened to be that one.

Claire skimmed the contents with a frown. There was such a sense of familiarity to the email that it really threw her when she caught a few lines that she didn't feel like she'd read before. It made her read the rest of the list much more carefully, until she came across an email that she thought must be a hoax.

She read the note three times, and each time she felt just a little colder. She should have expected it, really. Sooner or later someone was going to think it would be funny to write something like that – she'd just been expecting something that was closer to obvious trolling. A '_do ur homwurk clair lol. castiel_' kind of comment. This was something much better thought out (and with much better grammar), so it came as a surprise.

Claire spent a full five minutes just staring it before she managed to do anything about it. She thought about replying publicly, quoting the comment directly and posting a response to the blog itself. She thought better of it almost immediately afterwards, a spark of maturity telling her it wasn't a good idea. Whoever the author was, they'd left a return address.

It took her a few tries to get it right, constantly writing and erasing until she finally felt good about what she'd written. Claire clicked the send button with a viciousness the mouse didn't deserve to feel. She didn't give any thought to the ridiculous notion that the email might not actually be a joke.

_Dear Asshole Doing it For the Lulz,_

_Very funny. Ha ha, you got me. I'm sure you feel very accomplished after trolling a thirteen year old. That really takes guts. You know that saying "pics or it didn't happen", that applies here. We both know the real Dean Winchester would never comment on my blog. For one thing it's way too dangerous, for all I know the FBI could be monitoring communications in our house just in case my dad ever tried to contact us. _

_Troll someone else._

_Claire._

She put the email from her mind then and concentrated on homework. She forgot about it altogether when Lauren called her after dinner and invited her to a 'girls night in' after school on Friday. It would be the first sleepover Claire had been invited to since she was eight years old.

The next email that sat in her inbox was individual, from the generic address '_.counting_'. It was tagged with the same subject line as before 'To Cas's Kid', and Claire realised only then that she'd sent the return email from her own account and not through the website.

She opened the message expecting a childish blow-up or more taunting. What she got was another short note and a series of three grainy pictures clearly taken by and uploaded from someone's mobile phone.

.

.

_**From**__: .counting[generic free server]  
__**To**__: claire_the_bear[generic free server]_

_**Subject**__: To Cas's Kid_

_Claire. Remailers were invented for a reason. When youve been on the run this long you pick up some tricks. I grew up on the run, been caught a few times and never been held for more than a few hours. I know my shit, kid._

_[Set of three attached images, 400pixels by 600pixels, uploaded from a mobile network.]_

#1 - Close-up picture of a handsome Caucasian man with green eyes and a recent split to the right side of his lower lip. Looks to be late twenties, maybe early thirties. Leather jacket, plain olive green shirt.

#2 - Taken in a diner booth, no identifying features. Handsome brunette man, Caucasian, square jaw, looking at a dark-haired Caucasian woman in a red leather jacket. Candid photo. She's either threatening him with a forkful of salad or offering him a bite of it.

#3 - Taken through an open car window from the outside. Unimpressed white male with dark hair and light eyes, face partially in shadow.

.

.

Claire's first reaction was to blaspheme. It didn't even cross her mind to tell her mother or alert the authorities. In fact, once she was done staring dumbly at the screen, scrolling up and down to look at the three photos over and over, her first instinct was to call John.

"Hello?"

"John," Claire hesitated, remembering her own jibe about the FBI possibly monitoring communications. "I... I got a weird comment on my blog."

"That's not a big surprise," John pointed out, "there are a lot of weirdos out there and you write about serial killers. Are you ok? You sound kind of weird."

"I'm ok. I just need to show you something. Will you be at school tomorrow?"

"Yeah, sure. Same time, same place?"

"Library, lunch time," Claire confirmed. She was still a little freaked out when she hung up, and spent way too much time looking at the grainy, imperfect pictures before she transferred the files to a memory stick. She wiped her history same as usual and shut her computer down, tucked the memory stick into her backpack, and settled in for a sleepless night. She knew her brain was working too fast to let her sleep.

Why would _Dean Winchester_ contact her? How had he even found her blog? Claire was still convinced that she wasn't much of a phenomenon, that her blog only had a cult audience at best. If she'd googled herself she might have been horrified to discover that wasn't the case. Claire's main question, above and beyond anything else, was about his motivation. Why would he reassure her? (And holy crap! She'd called him an asshole and accused him of trolling her!)

"Oh my God." John's reaction the next day in the library was pretty much the same as Claire's had been. He stared at the photos on the screen for a few seconds, eyes darting from face to face, before he finally turned back to Claire. "Holy shit. Dean Winchester sent you pics. This is like, the exclusive of the century."

"You can't say a word to anyone," Claire pressed him, snatching the stick from the usb port and tucking it back into her bag.

"You're kidding?"

Claire shook her head and logged out of her school internet account. "This is the kind of thing that would lead directly to my mom finding out about me writing creepy letters online. If I tell anyone, especially the authorities, then it would get back to her and she'd freak out. She'd probably want to pack up and move to Australia if she thought I was in contact with a Winchester."

"But you are," John pointed out. "You're Dean Winchester's internet penpal."

"He's only written to me twice. That's not a penpal."

"But you're going to write him back." Claire stopped in her tracks, and flushed when John continued. "I know you, Claire. You're not going to just let this lie. You're totally going to email that mass murderer, even though it could be the most dangerous and stupid thing you've ever done."

Claire could tell that her cheeks were still red, but she couldn't tell if it was from excitement or embarrassment. "Tell me it isn't also the coolest."

John stared at her. For just a moment he looked as if he might protest. He breathed out a sigh and Claire knew that – for now at least – he wouldn't tell on her. "My girlfriend is badass," he said finally.

In a way, she figured it was only sensible. It was a potential source of information, one that nobody else had access to. After all, if the Winchesters had ever planned on hurting her or her mother, wouldn't they have done it already? They'd had over three, nearly four years.

And if they ever did... The Winchesters' list of past accomplishments made it pretty clear that when they wanted to do something, no amount of security could stop them.


	7. Claire's Correspondence With Dean

**Notes**: You might notice some errors in grammar and spelling in this chapter. I do know all about them, and they are indeed intentional. Doubly so if they're in Dean's communications.

.

* * *

.

Dear Psychotic Killer,

Ok, so it's actually you. What makes you think I won't forward your emails to the police?

Claire

.

Dear Claire,

No hello? No 'I'm your biggest fan'? Not even a 'how's dad'? You're meant to be a good catholic girl arent you. I thought good catholic chicks were meant to have manners. I mean here I am sending you a nice polite email and you threaten me with the police. Not cool, Claire, not cool.

Dean.

.

Dear Psychotic Killer,

I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to come out like that. I'm just a little bit freaked out that you're Dean Winchester and you're actually talking to me. I have so many questions, so many things I really want to ask you. Like why did you contact me?

When I started my blog I didn't even think it would have more than a few people reading it, I never imagined that you (a Winchester!) would ever see it. Why did you take my dad? What did you do to him? I don't mean that as an accusation, I just want to know.

Claire.

.

Claire,

Are you as demanding in real life as you are in writing? Thats a lot of questions. That tells me you've got an enquisitive mind and makes me think you might enjoy reading. There's a book you should get out from the library if your local one has a copy. It's called tell my horse, old papa Winchester had a copy in the boot. I read it when I was about your age. I'm not sure where it is now. I know Cas read it while we were out at the old cabin sometime. God he turns into a real fucking tyrant when we're out there, whining with his eyes about the gaps between the planks and the shitty water pressure in the kitchen. Doesn't say a word, but I can tell.

Dean.

.

Dear Psychotic Dean,

I read the book. I found it in the spirituality section in the library and spent a whole week's worth of afternoons reading it. I couldn't check it out or my mother would find it and freak out. She still cleans my room, which you probably know since you read my blog. There were some things in the appendices that I wondered about. Some of the symbols and things have been found near bodies that they say you killed, but according to the book the meanings don't seem to make sense. Are they some kind of bastardised ritual to repel evil? Is that why you kill people at the sites that have sigils and things drawn in spray paint, because it's supposed to keep demons and spirits away? That seems counterproductive.

I also have to ask because I keep wondering about it. Don't you go through a lot of clothes? What do you do with all of the ones that get stained with blood? I keep imagining a special brand of laundry powder but I know that's not right.

Claire.

.

Claire,

We dont do ritual killings. If we killed someone at a site with sigils its for a different reason. The satanism angle is all hype, we dont worship the devil and we dont think that killing people will keep demons away.

I'm sorry but there is no magical laundry powder, just plain old bleach or a lit match. Sometimes a raincoat over your normal clothes is the greatest idea you could ever have. When you live like us you keep a few good outfits that you don't do dirty work in. Kiss goodbye to the rest.

Dean.

.

Dear Psychotic Dean,

Do you know that show 'True Life Crime'? They aired an episode dedicated to you and Sam last night where they talked about your most famous killings. There were some dramatic re-enactments that were put together based on forensic evidence. It also talked about Castiel being your accomplice.

Is my dad really a killer or are they wrong? I looked up the definition of accomplice, it's a person who knowingly helps another in crime or wrongdoing often as a subordinate. Is he just an accomplice or does he kill people too?

Claire.

.

Claire,

I freakin love that show! It's kind of cute how they get things so wrong and that cheesy narration, Jesus H Fucking Christ! It's like the guy auditioned for a soap opera and wound up on a crime show by mistake. True life crime did another show about us a few years ago too. If you look it up online just bear in mind that dad never molested us and he was never a nazi or an alcoholic.

Cas is like our guardian angel. He has our backs, he kills if he has to. If you meant does he plan things with us then no he doesn't do that. He stays out of it except for that. Or when he's mad. Watch the fuck out if he's mad, it's beautiful.

Dean

.

Dear Psychotic Dean,

Are you planning on killing my dad? I'm sorry if that's blunt but I have to know. It seems like it might make sense, that you might have thought about killing him. Have you ever thought about killing me or my mom? Are you planning to? I know we couldn't stop you if you wanted to. Half of the people you guys have killed were cops, so...

I feel really morbid now.

Claire.

.

Claire,

Yea. Sometimes I worry about how sane normal people are. This guy at the garage was staring right at me for a full hour while I worked on his engine. He kept saying he thought he knew me from somewhere and that he'd get it if he just thought about it long enough. Want to know what the fucker said when he thought he had it figured out? American idol. This shit is why I dont watch prime time. The guy drove off thinking he'd just met some guy who auditioned to be a pop star.

If it was my turn to do the grocery run on top of that I think I would've had to knock over a liquor store just to feel like I still had my guts. Lucky for me Sam lost the coin toss. Now Ruby's bitching at him to

shit g2g

[2 hours later]

How the fuck do you explain two broken light fixtures in two weeks? This shit has to stop! One day we're going to get our goddamn bond back on these rental shitholes.

.

Dear Psychotic Dean,

It sounds like you lead an interesting life even when you're not being a psycho killer. Did you know that if you sign a lease agreement without a pre-rental inspection form then you might not be liable for damages because you can say they were already there when you entered the contract? My friend Marsha's mother is in real estate so she knows all about it. I'm guessing Ruby and Sam had a fight and that's how the light got broken?

How did you get her to join you anyway? She looked so comfortable in that photo you sent.

Also there are hardly any good shows on right now, so you're not missing anything.

Claire.

.

Claire,

Thanks for the tip. Have you ever read taken? Its by Ann Rotheridge. The start is slow but it picks up the pace, your mom wouldnt like it.

Dean.

.

Dear Psychotic Dean,

Ann Rotheridge was obsessed with demonic possession. I thought it might just be Taken that was about someone being possessed and then the demon pretending to be them while changing and destroying their life, but it turns out all of her books are like that. I had to hide the sequel in the bottom of my school bag because I couldn't stop reading it. Now the librarian thinks I'm weird and I have you to blame.

You didn't actually answer my question. In fact, you haven't really answered any of my questions. So now I think it's only fair to ask a couple more and maybe you'll answer these.

Is it true that you're a flamboyant homosexual? Or are you only gay with my dad because you couldn't get a girl?

Claire.

.

Claire.

I AM NOT GAY

Gays dress in stupid clothes and drink girly pink cocktails. I've been with plenty of women, I happen to be in a relationship with a man, that doesn't make me gay. I dont watch sex in the city. I dont mince around in tight jeans flaunting my ass and flirting with the guy behind the perfume counter because I'm not fucking gay and I dont shop in pussy gay bitch stores.

Dean.

.

Dear Psychotic Dean,

You swear a lot when you're upset. You also have an interesting interpretation of the word 'gay'. If my mom wouldn't freak out over the fact that you were Dean Winchester then she'd certainly freak out over your use of language.

Claire.

.

Claire,

Try forrester's modern mythology, a book you might actually be able to read in front of your mom without her freaking out on you.

Fuck bitch whore cunt shit goddamn fucketty fck

So there.

Dean.

.

Dear Psychotic Dean,

Not that I don't appreciate it, but why do you keep recommending books to me? If mom didn't think that reading was a good habit then she might start getting suspicious about all of my trips to the library. And why are they all books that have something to do with mythology? I'm not sure I understand the point. I keep getting the feeling that there's more to it, like this is a bizarre reading list and you're leading up to something.

Is there something to it, or are you just trying to share a weird love of books with me?

Claire.

.

Claire,

It's only proof of how crazy we Winchesters are if I told you.

Dean.

[Attached is a photo taken by a phone. The colour is a little off. In the left is Sam's shoulder and part of his head, blurred and out of focus. The rest of the photo is of a man who has clearly just been shot, part of his face obscured by the thick black smoke that looks like it's coming out of his mouth.]


	8. Chapter 6

**Notes**: I'm sure some people will think that Dean is trying to tell Claire that he's a hunter and not a serial killer. Those people have ignored my advice and forgot to read _Angelface_ first.

* * *

.

Claire knew that she shouldn't, but she was keeping a record of her correspondence with Dean aside from the original emails that mouldered in her hidden account. Claire had taken to hiding the memory stick in the bottom of her backpack or wearing it around her neck under her school uniform. She was obsessively paranoid that somehow her mother would find it, each option on the list of '_How Mom Might React'_ just as bad as the next.

If Amelia saw the files and thought Claire had made them up then naturally Claire would be booked in to a session at the psychiatrist quicker than you could say 'charge by the hour'. If Amelia thought they were real she would take a copy straight to the police. She would certainly confiscate the memory stick, revoke all of Claire's computer privileges, and may just pack up and move them both to another continent entirely to escape the fear that soon Dean Winchester would be knocking on their door with a shotgun in one hand and the satanic bible in the other.

And that wasn't including the trouble Claire herself would be in once the panic had settled.

The one conclusion Claire had drawn from thinking about these potential reactions was that she _Must Not Get Caught_. The phrase was a visual in her mind, italicised and enunciated with capitol letters at the beginning of each word.

Unfortunately there was also another, conflicting imperative. Claire desperately needed to talk to someone about her ongoing conversation with Dean. More specifically, she desperately needed to talk to someone about the photo in his last email.

"It's a fake," John decreed, looking at the picture on the computer screen. The school library probably wasn't the best place to show people pictures of men who were being shot, but it was the only place they weren't likely to be disturbed. At least by anyone who would want to know more.

"I don't think he has access to photoshopping programs," Claire replied, frowning as she scrutinised the photo for what felt like the hundredth time.

"We don't know what he has access to," John pointed out. "I mean, he's mentioned working in a garage and renting a house. They've got to be holed up somewhere, blending in with the locals in some town, totally invisible. They could have computers. In fact, they could have friends with computers who think that's some kind of art project or practical joke."

"It doesn't look like it's photoshopped."

"Isn't that the whole point of photoshop? That the good pictures don't look like they've been tweaked."

Claire sighed. She closed the picture and took the memory stick from the usb port. It hung from a cord that she put around her neck, out of sight under her shirt.

"Look, why don't you ask him?" John suggested. He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly. "Call him out on it. Tell him to stop screwing around and tell you outright what he's on about."

"Because what's the worst he could do?" Claire joked.

.

Dear Psychotic Dean,

I don't get it. Why did you send me a photo that has obviously been photoshopped? Why do you keep telling me to read this book or that one? They're all about the same things, voodoo and demonic possession, spirits and mythological oddities. Are you messing with me?

Claire.

.

Claire. I'm not messing with you.

This is a story.

Once upon a time there was a man who had a beautiful life. He thought he had everything down. He had a house in the suburbs. He had a loving wife and a young kid and a bright future ahead of him. Then one day he got jumped by a cloud of smoke that took over his body and tricked him into making a deal. If the man gave up his body for a day then everything would be fine and he could go back to his normal happy life so the man agreed and the demon agreed to let him go. He gave up his body for a day and everything went back to normal. Nine months down the track his wife had another kid. That's the important part. So now he has two kids and a beautiful wife and a house in the suburbs. But then she dies and he finds out some things. She made a deal too, ten years ago before they even met that the demon, could visit her one day in the future. Thats when the man figures it out and it turns out his second son is only kind of half his. He thinks he could have done things differently. If he had only said no things might not have ended with his wife dead and his second son made with part of a demon.

In the end he figured out two things. One is that you can never trust a demon. Any egghead will tell you thats a parable, that the story is really about trusting strangers and taking people at their word or something like that. You know its a parable because if I tried to tell you it was real you'd tell me that was bullshit.

Theres no such thing as demons.

Dean.


	9. Chapter 7

**Notes**: The events of this chapter tie in to a timeline that may or may not be written. I have messed with ages, otherwise it would never work.

This is the last chapter of this particular story, but not of the Angelface 'verse. You may or may not see more of Claire in the future.

* * *

Claire was sixteen when the letters stopped completely.

After her fourteenth birthday the frequency of the letters between them had started to slow. Weekly letters turned into monthly, until one day Claire thought that Dean just forgot to send a reply. Or it might have been her. She couldn't remember, she'd only been keeping his side of the correspondence saved and letting her emails be automatically deleted when they got too old. By that point she didn't mind so much.

The Winchesters had dropped out of the news, featured only on the occasional rerun of True Life Crime or on countdowns of America's Most Wanted.

Claire's own life had moved on. She still posted the occasional letter to her blog, but by and large that part of her life seemed to be over. She had broken up with John the year before when his father transferred to another branch of the company he worked for. She still counted Lauren and Marsha amongst her friends, and was taking supplementary art classes at the local university some nights after school.

Despite that fact she did not plan on being an artist, much to her mother's secret dismay.

By eighteen Claire had almost forgotten that at one point she had written almost daily to a serial killer. She was accepted into three separate colleges, and in the end her decision was based solely on the fact that Lauren would also be going to one of them. She decided to major in psychology, which she considered ironic considering her own reluctance to be examined by anyone with a psychology degree.

She was two years into her bachelor degree when the name Winchester was suddenly national news again. _Dean Winchester Caught_. The headline blazed out in bold from her computer screen. _38 year old serial killer Dean Winchester was caught last night just outside the town of Lawrence, Kansas and is currently being held in a maximum security facility pending trial._

Claire shut the window without reading any more. She already knew all about Dean Winchester's nationwide killings, about the symbolism behind the supposedly satanic graffiti sometimes left behind. She still had copies of his emails to her in a folder on her laptop. She'd used some of it in a paper last year, had gotten a 97 for it. Claire sat in front of the screen for a few minutes before she thought better of it and found the news article again.

It didn't say where they were holding him. Probably because they didn't want Sam coming after him, which was a very real possibility given how previous arrests had gone.

She started making phone calls without really knowing who exactly she was supposed to talk to or what she should say. It took her over a month to actually get anywhere. Christmas came and went in the meantime, and during her time at home Claire didn't tell her mother what she was trying to do.

It wasn't until January 6th that she had a breakthrough. A week later, after a ridiculous amount of background checks, form signing and ass-kissing, Claire found herself face to face with Dean Winchester for the first time through the glass of a visitor's window.

Dean looked different from how she'd been expecting. Calm, confident. He smiled at her like they were old friends, and even though the phone distorted the sound his voice was smooth and pleasant when he greeted her. "Hello, Clarice."

Claire blinked at him. "It's Claire."

"Silence of the Lambs?" He asked. "Hannibal Lecter? I know you're a Catholic girl, but geez." Dean shook his head. "So what brings you here, Claire-bear? Had to come see for yourself?"

"I don't know," Claire admitted after a moment. "I suppose I came because I can't just email you and expect you to answer."

"Yeah, maximum security sucks," Dean agreed. "Figure these mooks think I'll be dialing straight to Sammy if they let me near any kind of communication."

"But you won't be?"

"If Sam knows best he won't show up. A massacre like that would put us all back on the map. Better," Dean smiled at her, "that I bite the big one and keep my mouth shut about where Sam or Cas might be found."

"So my dad is alright."

"Yeah, he's fine. He'd be madder than hell that I got myself caught..." Dean paused, an odd look crossed his face – there and gone in barely a second.

"You know they'll execute you, don't you?" Claire asked after a moment, and for some reason talking about Dean's inevitable death seemed less depressing than the possibility of seeing that look on his face again. "They'll never let you live, you have no grounds for appeal."

"I'm pleading guilty to all charges. Why lie? I'm not dragging this out."

That struck Claire as just a little odd. "So you're not afraid to die?"

Dean chuckled. He looked very handsome when he laughed. "I know where I'm going when I die, and I know what happens there too. I'll be out in under a century. They love serial killers where I'm headed, Claire-bear."

"You'll go to hell, where they strip you of humanity until there's nothing left but whatever they make you," Claire finished for him, remembering that scrap of information from years ago. "Aren't you sorry for the people you're leaving behind?"

"I'm covered." Dean seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then he leaned forward just a little, as if there weren't a pane of inches-thick glass between them. "You know I love him, right? Cas, your dad. I care."

Claire smiled. "I know. If I didn't believe that I wouldn't even be here."

When Claire left she wasn't sure what she'd achieved, if anything. It wasn't a sense of closure. She had been given a small envelope with a few of the things Dean had on him when he was taken in, apparently at his request. It was a small bundle of things, a Zippo, a wallet empty of everything but twenty dollars and an expired drivers' licence, a pendant on a black cord. Everything else had been confiscated as evidence.

She shoved the whole lot into her handbag, not knowing what she was going to do with it. Just a few short minutes later she thought better of it.

Claire put on the pendant.

The End of This Particular Story, But Not The Verse As A Whole.


End file.
